


The Odds

by thegrendel



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Chastity Device, F/M, Gambling, Kidnapping, M/M, Organized Crime, Poker, luck, luck runs out, sodomy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 20:14:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15299172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrendel/pseuds/thegrendel
Summary: Betcha didn't know that anal sex can skew the odds.Poker and sodomy, what a combination.





	The Odds

"Yeah, that's exactly what I'm getting at. Anal sex _does_ skew  
the odds. It disturbs the natural order of things and scrambles the  
probability distribution. If anyone ought to know, _I_ should."

"Well, it most certainly sounds like a load of horseshit to me."

"Listen, Mick, you think I'm in this for kicks? Because I just happen to  
_like_ sticking my cock into any random signorita's butthole? Hey,  
I'd always thought asses were for toilet functions -- not for insertion  
of body parts, and _certainly not for sex_ \-- and even the idea  
of ass play used to make me sick. But, then this one particular woman  
came along -- a rock star wannabe she was -- and she kept nagging and  
nagging at me until I finally gave in and tried it. Then, I noticed  
something really strange . . . "

 

Julian was idly flipping a coin. Strange -- it seemed to be coming up  
tails more often than it should. So what? Sandy was still lying there on  
the the bed bare-ass naked, in fact, with that skinny bare ass sticking  
straight up into the air. Probably with his come still oozing out of  
the brown-rimmed hole between the cheeks of that bare ass. Man, what a  
wild ride it had been. Her rectal chamber had been hot enough to melt  
his cock like a wax candle.

Eight times in a row. Tails. Finally, a head. Then, five more tails. Nah,  
it couldn't be.

Just for the heck of it, he went over and got a pair of dice of out his  
traveling bag. They were honest dice, too, not shaved or weighted. Okay,  
let's see now. Seven. All right. Another seven. Eleven. Seven, seven . . .

Sure, why not? There was this diner down the road, maybe twenty minutes  
by car, that had video poker machines. He'd drive down and see if this  
weird lucky streak held.

A pair of jacks. The machine had finally beaten him. Well, he was still  
thirty bucks ahead. Not bad for feeding in quarters for half an hour. But  
the "magic" after-sex luck had faded out. And, the scrambled eggs on  
his plate were cold and rubbery and overdone.

 

"Yeah, hon, it'll be nice and dirty, just the way you love it. We'll strut  
right into the casino, dressed up real elegant, you know, just like any  
other respectable couple. But, you'll have nothing on underneath. That's  
right -- totally bare-ass naked underneath. Then, a few minutes later,  
you'll visit the Ladies' Room, and I'll wait in the corridor just  
outside. If the coast is clear, you give three quick raps on the door  
\-- like this. Then, I'll sneak inside real quick, making sure no one's  
looking, of course. We'll slip into a stall and latch the door. And then,  
you'll bend over for me and flip your up skirt."

He picked up $283 at the blackjack table right afterwards. Before his  
luck turned sour and he dropped a quick $60. But, that was still a cool  
200 bucks ahead, even counting the cost of dry-cleaning the suit jacket  
where he had spilled a martini on it. Not too shabby for a quickie  
restroom ass-fuck. But still, nothing like the big money this thing  
ought to be worth. If he could only figure out how.

 

"Well, Mick, Sandy started in bugging me about, well, about letting her  
do me. You know, letting her fuck _me_ with one of those strap-on  
gadgets. That's right, a dildo. Up my ass. Imagine that. Just like I  
was a queer being cornholed by another guy."

"And, you let her?"

"Yeah, well, after winning that money I kind of figured I owed her one.  
Not to mention that I was just a teeny bit curious what it would feel  
like on the receiving end."
    
    
      
      "Look, Julie, if you can just learn to relax your sphincter -- yeah,
        that sphincter -- then it won't hurt. At worst, you'll feel a mild
        burning sensation. And, some men find they like it. That it gives
        them a much more intense rush than sticking their cock into a hole."
    
       "Sure, Sandy. Just this once. And then you'll shut up and go back to
        acting like a real woman, instead of being pushy and wanting to get
        your own way all the time?"
    
       "We'll see about that. Right now, just shut up and bend over."
    

"It turns out I fucking _liked_ it. A lot. That silicone cock  
plunging in and out of me gave me the most explosive orgasm of my life. It  
was like a volcanic eruption boiling out of my ass. It was so good it  
scared the hell out of me. And afterwards . . .

" . . . well, we right away drove up to the nearest convenience store and  
bought half dozen state lottery tickets. I figured, why not, maybe reverse  
anal would do an extra-good job on jiggering the odds. And, guess what."

"What? You won?"

"Eighteen fucking thou, we won. Five out of six. And, it would have  
been a shitload more if 60 other people hadn't also picked those same  
numbers. And, we were only one off on the sixth. Just a hair shy of  
winning the Big Enchilada. Fifty-five fucking million."

"You have my sincerest sympathy."

"No need for sarcasm, Mick. And, I really do deserve sympathy. As it  
happens, Sandy ran off with every last cent of the $18,000. Last I  
heard she was somewhere on the coast making a career for herself as an  
entertainer. An honest-to-goodness rock star, if you can believe that  
shit. Only, she's calling herself Alexxia now. And, I'm flat fuckin'  
broke. In spite of my so-called luck."

"Hey, Julie. Let's assume for a moment that something really _did_  
happen, that somehow anal sex did alter your luck. But, you know,  
the flaw in all this is . . . _Why now?_ Why _you_ of  
all people? It seems to me that if ass-fucking buggers the odds, then  
someone would certainly have noticed by now. All those hetero couples  
throughout human history who ever tried sodomy and all the gays who've  
been sticking it up each other's asses, and nobody's ever parlayed it  
into gambling winnings? Sounds pretty damn unlikely to me."

"Unlikely? Mick, why don't you just come right out and say  
 _impossible_? No, it's all a figment of my imagination.  
No, sodomy _doesn't_ confer an evolutionary advantage. No, Alexander  
the Great, a practicing bisexual, wasn't a conqueror. No, Julius Caesar  
\-- 'every woman's husband and every man's wife,' as one historian put  
it -- wasn't one of the finest military strategists of all time. No,  
Oscar Wilde wasn't the most famous playwright of his time. No, Arthur  
Rimbaud wasn't a great poet. And so on."

"Hey, fellow. Just taking the contrarian point of view. From my own  
experience I _know_ how anal can enhance a person's life, above  
and beyond the sensual pleasure, I mean. And, you know that I know. We've  
known each other -- how long now? I'm your friend and confidante, after  
all. Me, Mick, the gay man everyone turns to for advice on matters  
relating to the gay life."

"Yeah, Mick, that's why I'm spilling my guts out to you. I think I'm on  
to something. Something potentially very big. And, I'm asking you for  
help."

"What kind of help?"

"Help in figuring this thing out. And, help in doing something about it.  
You see, there seems to be a kind of problem with all this. Every time I  
get on a lucky streak after anal sex, the luck is just a teeny bit flaky  
at the edges. I don't _quite_ win big, or something happens that  
leaves a rotten taste in my mouth. There's got to be something wrong  
somewhere, or maybe I'm doing something ass-backwards."

"Sure, Jule. It does make a weird sort of sense, now that I think about  
it. Even those historical examples you cited were flawed. Alexander the  
Great gobbled up a huge empire, all right, but he died young. Caesar was  
stabbed in the gut by one of his trusted friends. Wilde ended up in the  
slammer -- disgraced, dishonored, and bankrupt. Rimbaud had a tormented  
life and died young. And, so on. Could be this is something you'd be  
better off leaving alone, guy. Quit while you're ahead, as the saying  
goes."

"Dammit, no! I'm not a quitter. Especially not when it comes to big  
bucks. And, you've probably figured out by now what I'm going to ask  
of you."

"It's pretty obvious, isn't it? And, as it happens, I'd be happy to  
oblige. More than happy."

Getting ass-fucked by a _real_ cock, and a man who knew what  
to do with it was an eye-opening experience. Or, maybe an ass-opening  
experience, to be more precise. Mick's hard flesh felt warm and and  
vibrant, and somehow _more alive_ than a silicone replica. Even  
through the condom, Julian could feel the special pulsating energy  
of anal sex. _I'm being sodomized -- ass-fucked -- by a man, and I  
 _like_ it. Does that make me queer?_

 

"A five million lottery payout! That's almost 2 big ones apiece, even  
after taxes. Or, it would have been, Mick. If only the damn IRS hadn't  
frozen the damn payment."

"Sorry about that, guy. It seems that I neglected to mention a minor  
glitch I'd had in my return a few years back. A little venture of mine  
that didn't quite work out, but the Feds were a bit peeved that I couldn't  
come up with a couple of dollars worth of back taxes and . . ."

"Shit! Well, nothing like trying again. What say this time bareback,  
since we've both tested clean for all the nasty bugs."

Now _that_ had to count for something, Julian thought. Being able  
to actually feel your partner shoot his wad deep into you ought to stir  
up the good-luck daemons. It wasn't so much the feeling of wetness up  
in your gut as the knowledge that the man fucking you was squirting his  
jism up your plumbing, right up into your fundament. There was something  
disturbingly profound . . . and fundamental about that.

 

"So, we hit it big at the blackjack tables. Very nice. But, the casino  
manager calls us in for a quiet little talk and more or less implies  
that if we have any ideas about trying to cash in our chips, something  
very bad might happen. The management doesn't much care for cheaters,  
even cheaters clever enough to conceal how they had been cheating."

"Yeah, well, getting dealt two dozen blackjacks in a row does look a little  
suspicious, wouldn't you say?"

"Damn fuckin' luck. When it rains, it pours . . . and then your basement  
floods."

 

He needed a seven to fill out the inside straight. There was a shitload  
of chips in the pot and the guy calling himself Deuce, sitting across  
the table, was picking his nose and mumbling to himself. The other dude,  
One-Eyed Jack, looking like Captain Kidd with his black eye-patch,  
seemed to be quietly chuckling. What in the hell was so amusing?

This was the finals at the Nationwide Poker Shootout, and Julian could  
pocket a couple of million if he played it right. Those chumps thought  
that knowing the odds and how to read faces and body language gave them  
an edge. Well, he had a better edge. He had skewed the odds in his favor  
a while ago in the restroom off the lounge. Mick and he had taken turns  
plugging each other in the behind. Both cock and asshole were still  
a bit sore, and just thinking about it gave him a hardon. Well, maybe  
there'd be time for an encore later. Meanwhile, got to concentrate on  
the situation at hand, namely the hand at hand.

Seven of hearts! Call. Cards up. A straight beats three kings and two  
pairs. The other players were trading strange looks as they got up from  
the table. Half-hour break for lunch. Time enough for another session  
in the bathroom, maybe. But, no, he was tired and it was getting to be  
late in the afternoon. Anyhow, his ass was too sore.

 

There comes a time when everyone's luck finally runs out. Julian's time  
came when the Black Helicopters landed on his front lawn, flattening  
his black dahlias and smashing three ornamental flamingos.

The men in uniform were very insistent. He had no choice about  
accompanying them. And, of course, they were authorized to use any  
necessary force to prevent him from causing a disturbance. Or, so  
they said.

The cabin interior was quite luxurious. Julian could have sunk right  
into the plushly-upholstered bucket seat and relaxed . . . if only the  
shoulder and lap belts trussing him up so tightly didn't make him feel  
like a fattened calf being transported to the slaughter house.

 

There was an intolerable itch in the small of his back, but he couldn't  
move his arm to reach it. His wrists and ankles were manacled directly  
to the damn chair. The painfully intense light shining directly into  
his eyes made it impossible to see anything.

"We have been watching you for some time now, Julian. Unfortunately,  
you seem to have made quite a nuisance of yourself with your uncontrolled  
use of the Gift."

"Gift? What gift? And who the fuck _are_ you guys anyhow?  
Kidnapping me and keeping me prisoner! Just wait till the police  
get a hold of you."

"The police, my dear Julian? We _own_ the police. Who do you think  
runs things from behind the scenes, to keep the peons from fucking up  
the System too badly? Yes, fucking things up, just as as you've been  
doing these past few months."

"So, you're some kind of all-powerful secret cabal -- the invisible,  
enigmatic Rulers of the World? Ha! Looks to me like you're just one  
more jumped-up bunch of crooks. Lawyers, bankers, politicians, and  
thieves. And kidnappers, to boot."

"My dear fellow, we will take into account your deranged state of mind and  
disregard your insults. The UN Quadrilateral Commission for the New World  
Order has not, in fact, kidnapped you -- just taken you into protective  
custody. We've removed you from circulation temporarily . . . until you  
can be trained to behave in a more responsible manner. Unbeknownst to you,  
your disruptive self-centered behavior has caused untold mischief, and  
endangered not only your own miserable person, but impacted on long-term  
projects affecting the international financial community. That cannot be  
allowed to go on."

 

Julian learned to restrict his use of the Gift. He _had_ to. The  
alternative was having a sizable portion of his brain surgically removed.

Only one person in a hundred million has the Gift. The energy these  
"gifted" ones release during and after anal sex radiates Epsilon  
Uncertainty Waves. These distort the probability matrix in the immediate  
vicinity. It skews the odds and upsets the Natural Order of Things. And,  
of course, it unsettles certain people, the people who control the  
world's wealth and finances. . . .

Sooner or later, the odds always catch up with the individual who meddles  
with them. He starts having "accidents." His health deteriorates. He  
drifts away from friends and family and gradually becomes isolated. He  
slowly loses his will to live. It's a dangerous lifestyle. And, it's  
certainly not worth any temporary benefits.

Anal sex generates spontaneity, novelty, and variety. It brings into being  
new combinations of things. It freshens up the planetary ecology. . . .

It seems that the World-Mind needs to reboot itself every once in a while.  
When things get in a rut. When life gets too stale. When a major change  
is needed. But . . . what's best for the Ecosystem of Life as a whole  
isn't necessarily best for the individual. Unfortunately. And Bad Things  
eventually catch up with the Agents of Change -- the gifted few whose  
practice of anal sex distorts the odds.

Nowadays, Julian is a good boy. A _very_ good boy. Except for a  
once-a-month closely-supervised visit from a certified sex therapist,  
he's totally celibate. He's not even allowed to masturbate without  
permission. And, getting his chastity belt unlocked for even a few  
minutes means filling out in triplicate all those multi-page forms . . .


End file.
